


Routine

by squadrickchestopher



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Steve Rogers, Coffee, Coffee Addict Tony Stark, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting to Know Each Other, Insomnia, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Morning Routines, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Nightmares, Top Tony Stark, use of traffic lights as safewords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:40:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24491422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: Tony has a routine to deal with his insomnia. Steve keeps changing it. Tony finds he doesn't mind so much.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers (past), Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 236
Collections: Captain America/Iron Man Fanwork Like it's 2012 Fest





	Routine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the cap_ironman Fanwork Like It's 2012 Fest, [. I think the intent was for hot filthy sex in the kitchen, but as per my usual, it developed feelings and plot and I'm not sorry at all.](https://cap-ironman.dreamwidth.org/2077232.html?thread=14982192#cmt14982192)

Insomnia is practically an old friend to Tony. Has been, most of his life. It’s not unusual for him to stay up for days at a time, unable to sleep despite being exhausted. In the rare event that he _does_ go to sleep at a normal time, he typically finds himself awake again mere hours later.

So when he blinks himself awake at two in the morning, he knows exactly what to do. He gets out of bed, pulls on a t-shirt and sweatpants, and pads his way down the hall into the kitchen. He’ll make himself some coffee, dig out a donut from the box Barton brought in the other day, and then disappear into the garage. Busy himself with one of the car engines, or maybe tweak the thrusters on his suit. Work his fingers and his mind until the exhaustion is overwhelming, and then crash on the couch down there. Simple. Easy. The regular routine.

Except when he gets into the kitchen, he finds he’s not the only one awake. Steve Rogers is there, fiddling with the coffee maker and quietly muttering to himself.

“Hey,” Tony says, and Steve whips around. “What’s up?”

“I’m…” Steve rubs his face, then nods. “I, uh…I can’t sleep.” He looks vaguely embarrassed about this, or maybe it’s just sheer exhaustion. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he looks drawn and thin. “I was gonna make some coffee, but I don’t know how it works.”

“Oh.” Tony walks over. “Here. Let me show you. It looks more complicated than it is.” He reaches past the other man, grabs a new coffee filter, and flips open the lid. “Filter goes here. Put in what you want—I usually do a single scoop for just me, so I’ll double it now. Then fill the reservoir with water, probably to here for both of us. Then flick this, press this, and that’s it.” The machine starts its usual noises, and he smiles at Steve. “There.”

Steve doesn’t smile back. “Thanks,” is all he says, then he moves away to sit at the table. Tony leans against the counter and watches the pot fill.

When it’s done, he takes out two mugs and fills them both, then takes one over to Steve. “Milk in the fridge if you want,” he says.

Steve shakes his head. “This is fine. Thank you.”

They sip their coffee in silence. It’s surprisingly companionable, all things considered. Tony had thought, once upon a time, that he hated Steve. At the very least, he resented the man. Resented the way Howard had held him up to be an ideal. The son that Tony never could live up to.

But then there was Loki, and the Battle of New York a few months ago, and things had changed between them. Sure, _Tony_ had been the one to deliver the missile through the portal, but Steve had brought them all to that point. He’d stepped up and taken charge without a complaint or an argument. He’d directed the battle, and called positions, and nearly killed himself to keep innocent people safe. As much as Steve could be a self-righteous prick, he was a good leader. A smart guy with a inherent knack for tactics.

Tony studies him now over the rim of his mug. Steve really does look tired. More than that. He looks…lost, almost. Lost in thought, or lost in time. Maybe both.

“Hey,” Tony says, the word leaving his mouth without permission. “You okay?”

Steve jumps slightly, then tries for a smile. “Yeah,” he says, taking a sip of coffee. “I’m fine.”

Tony nods. If he were someone else, he’d push the issue. Get Steve to open up a little bit about whatever is so clearly bothering him. But he’s Tony Stark, king of emotional repression, and so he doesn’t. He just finishes his coffee, says, “I’ll be in the garage,” and vanishes downstairs.

* * *

Thirty-six hours later, Pepper is the one who drags him out and upstairs. She makes him shower, then makes him sit at the table and eat a full meal. Tony doesn’t even try to argue with her. He just spoons soup into his mouth and fights back the urge to ask where Steve is.

He doesn’t even know why he cares, really. He likes Steve more than he did three months ago, but they’re not exactly best friends. Tony shouldn’t care where he is. Certainly shouldn’t be wondering if he’s okay. _Definitely_ shouldn’t be wondering about what made him so sad the other night, and if there’s anything Tony can do to help.

After he’s done eating, Pepper marches him to bed. “Sleep,” she orders, tone leaving no room for anything else. “I don’t want you leaving this room for the next eight hours, clear?”

“Clear,” Tony mutters, laying down on the bed. He falls asleep within minutes, vaguely aware of her pulling his shoes off.

He wakes up again four hours later. Not well-rested—not that he’s ever well-rested—but the edge is gone, and he can think straight. So he does the usual. He gets up, gets dressed, and heads to the kitchen, mentally apologizing to Pepper along the way. He’ll get coffee, go down to the shop. The typical routine.

But once again, he’s not the only awake.

Steve looks up at him as he enters the kitchen. He’s got his own coffee this time, and as Tony looks over to the pot, he realizes there’s more in there. For him? Or did Steve make too much?

They meet eyes, but Steve doesn’t offer an explanation. So Tony just pours the rest into his own mug, and sits down. He takes a sip and nods. “Good job.”

“It’s not hard,” Steve says. “Just new.” He pauses, then adds, “Feels like everything is new.”

His voice is light, but his eyes are far away again, seeing something Tony can’t even begin to understand, and Tony thinks suddenly that maybe he hasn’t been very fair to Steve.

Tony grew up in this world. Hell, he _created_ most of this world. He lives in his tower with his toys and his tech, and he’s always felt right at home here. But Steve is almost seventy-years from home and everything else he’s ever known. Tony’s never really thought about it, but it must have been jarring as hell to wake up the way he did. He’d gone into the ice expecting to sacrifice himself for the greater good. And then he’d been revived seventy years later into a world that resembled nothing of the one he’d left. No more friends. No more family. Just a man out of time.

Tony tries to imagine how he would feel if he was in Steve’s shoes, seventy years from now, and the thought almost makes him want to cry.

“You okay?” Steve asks, and this time it’s Tony’s turn to jump and try a shaky smile.

“Yeah,” he says, draining the rest of his coffee. “Yeah. I’m good.”

He shoves his emotions to the side—Tony Stark, king of repression—and takes his mug to the sink. “I’ll be in the garage,” he says.

“Okay.”

* * *

It becomes A Thing between them. Sometimes Tony is the first one up, sometimes it’s Steve. They make coffee for two, pour it into mugs, and sit at the table to share their silence. One of them will ask the other if they’re okay. Tony will finish first, drop his mug in the sink, and go down to his garage. Then a night or two later, it’ll start all over again.

Routine.

Tony isn’t used to sharing his insomnia, but after the first few times, he finds he likes the company. Likes sitting in the dim light of the kitchen with Steve. Likes the way Steve starts to relax a little more around him during the day. They never have a nighttime conversation past “are you okay?” but Tony still feels like he knows Steve _better_ now, somehow. There’s an ease between them that wasn’t there even a month ago.

One night Tony wakes up first. He makes coffee for two, sits at the table, and wraps his hands around the mug for warmth. Steve comes in a few minutes later. He nods at Tony, then pours his own and sits in his usual place.

 _Routine,_ Tony thinks, tapping his finger on the mug.

And then Steve breaks the silence with a quiet, “This is good coffee.”

Tony blinks. It takes him a moment to register the words. Steve watches him the whole time, eyes uncertain. Like he’s not sure if Tony’s interested in anything else beyond silent coffee and _are you okay._

“It’s imported,” Tony finally says. “Expensive, but worth it.”

“I like it.”

Tony nods. Finishes his coffee. “I’ll be in the garage.”

“Okay,” Steve says, and he smiles.

* * *

It keeps happening, after that. Like making the coffee, they take turns. Steve will offer a comment, or Tony. Usually about nothing in particular. Nothing of consequence. _Weather was nice today. I like this mug. We should get schwarma for dinner. I’m going into SHIELD tomorrow._

It keeps happening. Routine. Night after night. Tony gets used to it, eventually. This is fine. He can deal with small talk. It’s not even so bad, honestly. Not with Steve. He makes it easy. Natural.

And then it changes again.

They come into the kitchen at the same time. Both are a little surprised at this, but then Tony goes to make the coffee, and Steve sits in his chair. Tony pours two mugs and slides one to Steve, then sits in his usual place.

He’s halfway through his mug when Steve says, “We used to drink Nescafe, during the war.”

Tony makes a non-committal sound.

“It wasn’t as good as this,” Steve adds. “It was instant. Tasted like crap. But it was all we had, so that’s what we drank. Bucky liked to—”

He cuts off _hard_ at that, face crumpling. Tony’s heart twists at the sight. He knows the story of Bucky Barnes, of course, but judging from Steve’s expression, he thinks there’s more that _wasn’t_ told. Something more intimate. More personal. That’s the face of a man who lost something far beyond a best friend.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says quietly.

Steve bites his lip, then nods once. “Me too,” he whispers, and neither one says anything more after that.

* * *

Steve never mentions Bucky again, but there are other things to talk about that don’t hurt him quite so much. He tells Tony about the USO tour, and liberating prisoners from Hydra. He talks about the Great Depression, and the desperation of slowly starving to death. He describes what it was like to become Captain America, a stranger in his own body.

Tony talks too. He might be the king of emotional repression, but there is something about the honesty of Steve’s confessions that makes him want to share too. So he tells Steve about his father, and Jarvis, and what it was like at M.I.T. He talks about creating Dum-E in his father’s workshop. He makes Steve laugh—actually, _really_ laugh—when he tells him about the pranks that he and Rhodey used to pull in college, and the elaborate ways they got in and out of trouble.

Their conversations slowly get longer. Sometimes the morning sun will be breaking over the horizon by the time Tony goes down to the garage. One night they talk for so long that Pepper comes in to start breakfast. She looks between the two of them, then over at the empty coffee pot.

“Sorry,” Steve tells her. “I can make more.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, meeting Tony’s gaze. There’s something in her eyes, something approving, and she smiles at him. Tony’s not entirely sure what it means, but he thinks it’s a good thing. “I’ll get it myself.”

* * *

There is a night, then, where Steve doesn’t come to the kitchen.

Tony does the usual—coffee, mug, chair—and he waits. He’s still waiting by the time his coffee is gone, so he gets up and pours another. By the time that one is done, he is still alone. It’s unusual—more than a break in the routine, it’s a shattering. Sometimes it takes time, but the other always shows. This is the first night since they started…whatever this is, that he has been alone.

Some part of him wonders if maybe Steve has lost interest. Maybe he’s decided that he doesn’t need Tony anymore. Doesn’t need to talk with him. Maybe all he wanted was an open ear for his war stories, and now that he’s shared them, he doesn’t need—

There’s a whimpering sound. Quiet, bitten-off, but unmistakable. When it happens again, Tony gets up and moves down the hall. It’s coming from Steve’s room, he realizes. The door isn’t closed all the way.

Tony hesitates at it. This isn’t the routine. There is no blueprint to follow here. He should turn around, go down to the garage. Machines are easy. People…people are complicated. He doesn’t know how to handle people.

He tells himself this, but he doesn’t leave. He pushes open the door and steps inside.

Steve is on his bed. His eyes are closed, but his face is twisted. Pained. He chokes out another noise, and twists his fists in the sheets.

Tony steps a little closer. “Steve,” he says, voice low. He’s not sure how to wake a super soldier from a nightmare, but he doesn’t want to get too close. He’s been hit by those fists before; he’s not eager for a repeat. “Steve!”

“Bucky,” Steve whimpers. “Bucky, _no_. Don’t let go.”

Tony’s heart clenches. “Steve,” he says again, a little louder. “Steve. It’s just a nightmare, man. Wake up.”

“Bucky,” Steve says again. He’s crying, Tony realizes. “Grab my hand!”

“Steve!” Tony steps forward, raises his voice to a shout. “Wake up!”

Steve jolts awake like he’s been shocked. He sits bolt upright, blue eyes wide and terrified. He chokes another _Bucky_ off before it can fully leave his lips, and raises his fists, looking around frantically. It takes him a second to recognize Tony, but Tony can see the exact moment he does. His eyes go from pain and horror to…relief?

No. He must be imagining that.

“You were having a nightmare,” he tells Steve. “I didn’t…I wasn’t sure how to wake you.”

Steve wipes at his face and nods. “That works,” he says. His voice sounds wrecked. “Um. Thank you.”

“I have nightmares too,” Tony says, and as soon as the words leave his mouth he wonders why he said it. Their conversations have turned more personal, but some things are better left unsaid. They both know why they’re awake so often in the early hours of the morning. They don’t need to hash it out with words.

But the admission seems to ease something in Steve. “Sucks,” is all he says, and Tony laughs a little.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “You want coffee? I can bring it here.”

He’s not sure why he offered that either, but Steve looks marginally happier than he did a moment ago. “I’d like that,” he says softly. “Thank you, Tony.”

Tony nods and goes back to the coffee pot. Pours one mug. Starts to take it back.

Then he stops. Pours a second one, and carries them both into Steve’s room. It’s important, he thinks, to maintain the routine, no matter how much it changes.

He’s not sure why, but whatever this is—he doesn’t want to lose it.

* * *

Tony is in the cave.

It’s cold in here, he knows. He doesn’t feel it, but his breath puffs in the air, so he assumes it’s cold. He’s also dressed warmly in a hat, and a puffy coat, and fingerless gloves.

Yinsen is there too. He smiles at Tony from over by the computer as his fingers type. “Is this what you want?” he asks, indicating the rest of the room. Tony turns to see the boxes of weapons, the pieces of missiles that he’d cannibalized for his first Iron Man suit “Is this what you wish the legacy of the great Tony Stark to be?”

“I changed,” Tony says. “I changed, Yinsen. I’m not that guy anymore.”

“Then why are you holding a weapon?”

Tony looks down in his hands. “I’m not,” he starts, but then he is. There’s a rifle in his hands, and as he blinks, it changes and morphs into the gauntlets of his suit.

“You are still causing destruction,” Yinsen says sadly. “You are still creating chaos.”

“I save people,” Tony protests, yanking at the gauntlets. They don’t come off, no matter how frantically he scratches at them. “I’m an Avenger now.”

“Death follows in your wake, Stark. It always has. No matter where you look, there is nothing but death. It surrounds you.”

The cave melts away, the dull rock exchanged for the blackness of space, and the fabric of distant stars. His arc reactor flickers in his chest, and his lungs tighten, and he can’t breathe, he can only gasp and reach out and—

“Tony!”

Tony comes awake with a strangled scream. He thrashes hard against whatever’s pinning him down, it’s heavy, heavy like the weight of a nuclear missile on his back, and it’s calling his name over and over. “Tony! Tony!”

 _Steve_ , he suddenly realizes, and stops moving.

“Tony,” Steve says again. “Wake up.”

He’s got Tony’s wrists in an iron grip, and he’s straddling Tony, knees on either side of his hips. Tony sucks in a breath and looks up into those blue eyes. “Steve,” he says, his voice roughened by screaming.

“Yeah, Tony. It’s me.”

“What—what happened?”

“You were having a nightmare,” Steve says. “I tried to wake you up, but you were hurting yourself, so I…” He lets go of Tony’s wrists and gets off him. There’s a little blush spreading over his face. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he mutters as he sits up. He’s shivering, the cold from his nightmare still clinging to his skin. “Thank you.”

Steve appraises him, then gets up. He leaves the room, and Tony watches him go, unsure what to say. What to do. Waking someone from a nightmare is entirely different than being the one woken. He feels—

He doesn’t know what he feels.

Steve returns after a minute with two coffees, and presses Tony’s into his trembling hands. “Drink,” he says. “It’ll help.”

Tony drinks. The warmth of the coffee chases away the last grip of the nightmare, and he finds that he can breathe easier. He tries for a smile. “Thank you, Steve.”

“Anytime,” Steve says simply. He looks down into his own mug. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Tony admits.

“Okay.”

They finish the coffee in silence. When his mug is empty, Steve pries it from his hands and gets up. “I’ll see you later,” he says, and presses his lips to Tony’s forehead in a gentle kiss before he goes. Tony gapes after him, too stunned to say anything in response.

* * *

It become part of the routine. Sometimes they’re both at the table, sharing stories and smiling. Sometimes they’re in each other’s room, waking the other after a nightmare. Tony doesn’t talk about Afghanistan, and Steve doesn’t talk about Bucky, but it’s nice to know that someone else is there. Nice to know that there’s a voice willing to tread into his deepest fears and pull him out when he needs it.

One night is particularly awful, and Steve is harder than usual to wake. Tony pulls every trick in the book, but when nothing else works, he goes for desperate measures. He gets into bed behind Steve, wraps an arm around his chest, and hitches a leg over his twitching ones. “Steve,” he says calmly, lowering his voice. “Steve, it’s Tony. I need you to wake up.”

Steve makes a low, broken noise, and the sound of it twists Tony’s heart. He tightens his grip and keeps talking. “Steve. Wake up, Steve. I’ve got you. It’s okay. Wake up.”

After a few minutes, Steve makes the gasping sound that means he’s coming back to life. He pushes a little bit at Tony’s grip, and Tony lets him go. He rolls over a little bit, burying his face into the pillow, then pushes himself upright.

Tony sits up too. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Steve says, and he still sounds broken. Raw. “I’m not.”

Tony knows what that’s like.

He follows the routine, going to the kitchen and coming back with coffee. Steve takes it gratefully. They drink in silence, and Tony fights the urge to reach out and smooth the remnants of fear and stress of Steve’s face.

Finally, he says, “Was it about Bucky?”

Steve stiffens a little, but after a moment, he shakes his head. “No. The ice.” He takes a drink, inhales the heat of the mug. “I was drowning.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s inadequate, but what else is there to say?

Steve shrugs. “It’s not a new one. I just—” He stops, shakes his head. “It’s not usually that bad.”

Tony takes a sip of his coffee. Then, before he can think too much about it, he reaches out and takes Steve’s hand. “I’m sorry all the same,” he says, trying to make the words mean so much more than they do.

There’s a moment where Steve’s hand is stiff in his. Where Tony thinks that maybe he’s fucked up. Maybe this wasn’t the right thing to do, maybe he didn’t want it after all—

Then Steve’s fingers close over his, and there’s a soft smile on his face. “Thank you,” he says simply, and Tony finds himself smiling back.

* * *

It’s not over coffee, but over alcohol that Tony finally gets the courage to tell Steve about Afghanistan. Steve can’t get drunk, but Tony can, and he’s four whiskeys in before the words come spilling out of him. He tells him _everything_. The surgery. The torture. The shame of seeing his life’s work in the hands of terrorists. Yinsen’s words and how they encouraged him to be better. The fear of building his suit, knowing he could be killed any day—either by shrapnel or by a bullet. The stomach wrenching terror of his first flight. The elation of being rescued.

The secrets pour of out him like the whiskey, and Steve just takes them in. He doesn’t offer advice, or reactions. He just listens calmly. Carefully. Nods in all the right places. Later, he helps Tony to bed, and murmurs, “You’re a good man,” into his ear. Tony falls asleep, the sentence warming him more than the whiskey does.

He wakes with nightmares of course, because he opened that can of worms and expected nothing less to happen. What he _doesn’t_ expect is for Steve to still be in bed with him, an arm securely around his chest, and their ankles tangled together.

“Steve?” he mutters, heart thundering against the Arc Reactor.

“I’m here,” Steve murmurs. “I got you, Tony.”

Tony falls back asleep, the comforting pressure of Steve’s arm better than any blanket, the gentle sound of his breath better than any white noise machine. He doesn’t wake up again until the dawn seeps through his window.

He doesn’t realize until that afternoon that the nightmares didn’t return.

* * *

So the routine changes.

Tony sleeps in Steve’s room, or Steve sleeps in Tony’s. There are still nightmares, but it’s less awful when they’re together. The insomnia isn’t as bad either, and Tony realizes after two weeks of this new arrangement that he’s actually slept through a majority of the nights. The midnight coffees slowly shift into morning coffees, occasionally accompanied by Pepper.

She never says anything about their arrangement, but Tony catches her smiling sometimes. He’s still not sure what that look in her eye is about. He doesn’t push her to talk about it, though. Even he and Steve haven’t talked about it. It’s just A Thing they do now. Like the midnight coffees. It’s just routine.

Steve eventually tells him about Bucky. It’s after a bad nightmare, one that leaves him shaking and crying into Tony’s shoulder for almost an hour. When he’s somewhat recovered, Tony gets the coffee and hands him his favorite mug. “You okay?”

“No,” Steve says.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“…Yes.”

So he does. He tells Tony—well, not _everything_. But enough. Tony doesn’t need to know the details. He can fill in the blanks on his own, and he’s more interested in the other stuff anyway. About Steve’s growing up with Bucky in New York. Fights in back alleys. Rollercoasters on Coney Island. Joining the Army. Rescuing the 107th from Austria. Forming the Howling Commandos. Taking out Hydra outposts.

Bucky’s fall to his death from an icy train in 1945.

Steve starts crying again at this. Tony tugs the mug out of his hands and just holds him. He doesn’t know what else to do, but it seems to be the right move. Steve practically burrows into his arms, all six foot two inches of him curled up like a baby.

“I should have saved him,” Steve sobs. “He was my best friend, and I let him fall.”

There isn’t anything Tony can say to that. He thinks, on some level, that there isn’t anything _to_ say to that. There are no platitudes that can make this kind of pain better. 1945 might have been almost seventy years ago, but for Steve, it’s only been a few months. Bucky is still a gaping wound, and Tony of all people knows how long those can take to heal.

So he doesn’t say anything. He just holds Steve, and listens, and prays to anyone who’s listening that that’s enough.

* * *

Steve asks to be alone for the next few nights. Tony pretends this doesn’t bother him. Steve doesn’t come out for morning coffee either, and Tony also pretends this doesn’t bother him.

It shouldn’t. They’re not together. They’re not dating. They just have A Thing.

It bothers him anyway.

Three nights after the Bucky confession, Tony wakes up in the middle of the night. Not from a nightmare, for once. Just the usual insomnia. He knows how to deal with it. Get dressed. Coffee. Garage.

He can’t remember the last he’s done this. He has’t felt the need to work himself to exhaustion in the garage in a long time. Not since he and Steve started spending the nights together. It’s strange to do it now, almost. Like putting on a shirt he hasn’t worn in a long time. One that doesn’t really fit anymore, and itches up in all the wrong places.

Tony shoves his feelings aside and goes out to the kitchen. He makes enough for two out of habit, then pours his own and sits at the table, eyes on Steve’s empty seat.

It shouldn’t bother him. They’re not dating. It was just A Thing.

It bothers him anyway.

He finishes his coffee and goes down to the garage. Puts on some music and tries to lose himself in an engine, letting the familiar motions soothe him. Machines are so much easier than people.

Sometime later, the music pauses. Tony pulls himself out from underneath the car, ready to yell at Pepper for interrupting his flow. But it’s not Pepper standing by the stereo at all.

It’s Steve.

“Hey,” he says, holding two mugs in his hands. “Uh. Sorry to interrupt. I know you don’t like to be bothered when you’re down here, but I just…”

Tony wipes his hands off with a cloth. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m just working on a car.” He comes over and takes his mug. “Thanks, Steve.”

Steve nods. He looks a little lost, again, but Tony can understand that. His shop is overwhelming to _him_ sometimes. Steve probably feels even more out of place. So Tony clears off some things from the couch and motions him over. “Come on. Come sit.”

They sit on the couch and neither one of them says a word. It’s like those early days, when they would drink in silence. Except now there’s something different between them, and the quietness is more of weight than it used to be. Tony stares into his coffee mug and tries not to think about it.

“Hey,” Steve says softly. Tony looks up. “You okay?”

He can’t help the smile that breaks over his face. “Yeah, Steve,” he says. “I’m good.”

Steve nods, ducking his head to hide his own little smile. It’s oddly endearing. “I need to tell you something,” he says. “And I kind of need you to not talk until I’m done. Okay?”

“Okay,” Tony says. He wraps his fingers around his coffee. “Full attention. Got it.”

Steve takes a deep breath. “The stuff I said the other night. About…Bucky.” He clenches his fist on his knee. “He was my best friend.”

Tony waits.

“He was more than that, really.” Steve looks pained. “He wasn’t supposed to be. But it was always me and him. Ever since we met. He was the only one, you know?” He bites his lip. “But then there was the war, and Hydra, and then he died, and then I crashed the plane. And now he’s gone and I’m still here.”

He taps his fingers on his mug. “I still love him, Tony. I’m always going to, I think. And I miss him so much that it hurts, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

There’s a long silence then. Tony waits, but when Steve doesn’t elaborate further, he says, “So…what are you trying to say?”

“I’m not sure, honestly,” Steve says. “I think I just needed you to know that?”

“What, that you still love your dead boyfriend?” It comes out harsher than he means it to, and Tony winces.

Steve blinks. “That’s not…” He shakes his head. “I know there’s something _here_ , Tony, with you and me. I’m just trying to tell you why—”

“It’s fine,” Tony says, getting up. “We’re not dating, Steve. We’re not together. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. This—” he waves a hand around ”—is just something we do.” He sets his mug down. “And we don’t have to do it anymore if you don’t want. It’s _fine_.”

He slides back underneath the car, and works until the ache in his fingers is worse than the ache in his heart. By the time he comes back out, Steve is gone, and so are the mugs.

“Good,” Tony says to his empty workshop. “Doesn’t bother me.”

He lies to everyone else. What difference does it make if he lies to himself too?

* * *

There are no more morning coffees. No more midnight coffees, either. Tony goes back to spending his nights in the garage, and his days planning the clean energy expansion of the other Stark Tower openings. He deals with his nightmares alone.

It’s fine. It doesn’t bother him.

He sees Steve on occasion. They move around each other in the tower, stumbling through awkward silences and stilted conversations with all the finesse of two grown men who can’t talk about their feelings. Tony hides in his armor—literally, some days—and does his best to keep things normal.

It’s fine. It _doesn’t_ bother him.

Pepper finally pulls him aside one day. “You’re moping,” she says, looking right through him like always. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” Tony says. “It doesn’t bother me.”

She tugs his phone out of his hand. “What doesn’t bother you?”

Too late, Tony realizes what he said. He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, Pep.” He attempts a smile. “Hand me those blueprints, will you?”

She passes them over. “You know,” she says, “it would be easier for you if you just told him how you feel.”

Tony sighs, resigning himself to the conversation. “It won’t make a difference. He’s hung up on his guy.”

“Who’s his guy?”

“His guy from the war. Barnes. He died a little bit before Steve crashed the plane.”

She nods. “So he’s grieving.”

“I guess, yeah.”

“Just let him know you’re there, Tony. He could probably use a friend right now.”

“What if I want more than that?”

The words are out before he can stop them, and he hates the way they sound. Broken, and pitiful. He’s Tony Stark, goddamnit. He’s made of iron. He’s got no business sounding like that. If his father were here…

Pepper’s hand smoothes over his hair. “Tell him,” she says again. “If he wants the same, he’ll come to you when he’s ready.”

“It’s _me_ ,” Tony says. “I don’t know how to tell anybody anything.”

“You’re a genius, Tony.” She kisses his forehead. “I think you’ll figure it out.”

* * *

Three nights later, Tony can’t sleep.

He contemplates staying in bed. Maybe if he lays there long enough, he’ll fall asleep. It’s happened before, although rarely. Sometimes he’s just stubborn enough to force the issue.

But tonight isn’t one of those nights, so Tony gets up and pulls on some pants. He’ll just go right to the garage, then. Skip the coffee. It’s better that he doesn’t have caffeine anyway; it’s probably not the best beverage of choice for insomnia. _Maybe I should do what Dad used to do, and just numb it all with whiskey._ It had worked for him in the past, once upon a time. Could possibly work again now.

He tucks the thought away as he moves down the hall. The tower is quiet—the slow, syrupy kind of silence that only occurs in the early hours of the morning. Tony does his best to keep it that way, making his footsteps as unobtrusive as possible.

Then there’s a clattering noise in the kitchen. The groan of a coffee machine. The distinctive click of one, then two mugs being set down. It pulls Tony in that direction before he can even realize that’s where he’s going.

There’s a look in Steve’s eye when he sees Tony come in. Something past the surprise, and the fatigue. A look of appreciation that Tony’s seen before, but never this clearly. Never this openly. And certainly never on Steve’s face.

He realizes after a moment that he’s shirtless—they both are, actually—and he fights the urge to cover his arc reactor. It’s not something he’s ashamed of, but it’s not something he necessarily flashes around either.

“Hi,” Steve finally says, pulling his gaze away.

“Hey.”

Tony sits in his usual place at the table. Steve puts a mug in front of him, then takes his own spot. The old routine slowly dusts itself off as they drink together, the silence broken only by the clink of thick ceramic against wood.

Then Steve says, “What I said the other day came out wrong.”

Tony sips his coffee and stays quiet.

“I do love him. And I’m always going to. But I know he’s dead, Tony. I know he’s not coming back. And I know it’s not healthy for me to keep living wrapped up in the past.”

Tony sips his coffee and stays quiet.

“I’ve missed this. I’ve missed _you_.” Steve stares into his mug, then runs his finger around the rim. An eternity passes before he finally says, “You make things better, you know.”

Tony blinks. “I what?”

“You make things better. Easier.” Steve shrugs. “It hurts _less_ , when I’m around you.”

“What hurts less?”

“Everything.” He gestures to the world in general. “This isn’t where I’m supposed to be, Tony. I should have died in 1945. But I’m here, instead, and I just feel so…out of place. Out of time.” He sighs. “I’m always Captain America to the rest of them. The world. But when we do this…”

“You get to be Steve,” Tony finishes for him. “Yeah. I know what that’s like.”

He studies the other man, really _looking_ at him in a way that he hasn’t in a while. The dark circles are back under Steve’s eyes, and he looks pale and thin again. Like a shadow of himself. He’s looked like this for _days_ actually, now that Tony thinks about it. It’s hard to see sometimes, lost as it is under the shadow of Captain America. But Captain America is a show in the same way that Iron Man is. There’s a man underneath it all, and he’s hurting.

Tony finishes his coffee and makes a decision. “I’m going back to bed,” he announces. Then after a moment, he says, “You want to come with?”

Steve’s face lights up like the sun. “Yeah,” he says, draining the rest of it in one go. “I’d like that.”

They go to Tony’s room. He gets under the covers and holds them up for Steve, who slides in a second later. He presses himself to Tony’s back. Wraps an arm around his chest. Tangles their legs together. Buries his face in Tony’s neck. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Tony puts his hand on Steve’s arm and moves more securely into his embrace. “You make things easier too,” he whispers back, and lets the sound of Steve’s breathing lull him into sleep.

* * *

_You make things easier too_ is not exactly an admission of how he feels. But it seems to be enough to restart the routine. The ease that was once between them slowly returns, and the ache that’s been in Tony’s chest seems to fade away.

“Figure it out?” Pepper asks one morning. “You both look a little happier.”

“No,” Tony admits. “Not all of it. But I think we’ll get there.”

“Good.” She kisses his cheek. “Glad to hear it.”

 _Getting there_ arrives a couple weeks later. Tony wakes up in Steve’s room, in Steve’s arms, and realizes at some point that neither one of them had a nightmare all night. _And_ they slept the whole way through, so score.

“Hey,” he says. “You realize that we just slept without any nightmares _or_ waking up?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, his voice a little wondrous. “Guess we did, didn’t we?” He loosens his hold a little, and Tony rolls over to face him. Steve’s hair is tousled, and his eyes are still a little sleepy. He stifles a yawn and smiles at Tony. “Told you you make things easier.”

“I try,” Tony says. “Sometimes.”

His eyes drift down to Steve’s mouth, and he suddenly finds himself thinking about kissing him. Wondering what those lips would feel like against his own, if they’re really as soft as they look—

“You can.”

Tony pulls his mind back to the moment. “What?”

“Kiss me. If you want.”

“Huh?”

“Or not,” Steve adds quickly. “If you don’t—I didn’t mean—I just thought—”

Tony kisses him.

It’s a little awkward. They’re not really at a good angle for it, and they’re both a little unsure, and it’s not exactly the earth-shattering moment that Tony was hoping for. But for all that, it’s still worth it to pull back and see the smile on Steve’s face.

“You okay?” Tony asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says, leaning forward again. “It’s perfect.”

They kiss again, then Tony breaks it off with a little laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You laughed.”

“I just can’t believe this is happening,” Tony says. “Six months ago if someone had told me I’d be kissing Steve Rogers after spending the night in his bed, I would’ve told them they were nuts.”

“Life’s strange that way,” Steve agrees. “I’ve learned to just go with it, honestly.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Tony says, leaning in for another. “I can do that.”

* * *

Tony lets Steve set the pace, because it feels like the right thing to do. He knows Steve still thinks about Bucky, and he knows that Steve’s not that far away from the internalized homophobia of the twentieth century. So Tony takes it slow, and checks in, and lets Steve do what feels right to him.

It’s so different. He’s never waited like this before. Most of his relationships—if you can call them that—burned bright and fast, frantic in all aspects. Tony has never been one for romance. Never been one for slow kisses or hugs or lingering looks across the table at SHIELD briefings.

He’s been an idiot, honestly. Because this? This is the _best_ thing.

Does he want to tear Steve’s clothes off and fuck him up against a wall? Definitely. He’s not a nun. There’s no way he can be around the sheer god-like perfection of Steve’s abs and _not_ want that. But also he finds that he wants the little things. Like smiling at Steve while they try to cook, or moving around each other in Tony’s bathroom—he’d moved into Tony’s room, when the fuck did that happen, why does it make him so happy—or laying on the couch and watching movies together. He wants those almost as much as he wants the other things, and it’s so far off his normal relationship routine that he feels like he should be off-balance. Should be teetering and unsure.

But he’s not off balance at all. There’s no blueprint for him to follow here, no planned steps to build _whatever_ this is, but they manage to build it anyway. Steve still acts like a self-righteous prick on occasion, and Tony is an ass more often than not, but they make it work. They make it theirs. They figure it out together.

One night he’s making coffee, and thinking vaguely about how he should send a letter to the coffee company or something. _Dear Coffee People, I would like to thank you for your contribution to my budding relationship with Steve Rogers, as without your influence I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t have gotten together._

He’s in the middle of pouring the grounds in when hands slide around his waist, then up over his bare chest. “Tony,” Steve murmurs in his ear, his own bare skin pressing against Tony’s back.

“Steve.”

Steve turns him around and pins him against the counter, slotting their mouths together in a kiss. It’s not like the other ones—it’s hungry, and heated, and a little desperate, and Steve’s other hand is slipping down the front of his pants—

Tony grabs his wrist. “Steve,” he says again, and Steve stops. His eyes go wide, but before he can say anything, Tony puts his other hand over his mouth. “Shush,” he says, mind scrambling for the right words to say. His brain appears to have gone off-line temporarily, though, so finally he settles on, “Just—just tell me you’re sure about this.”

Steve nods, and Tony pulls his hand away. “I’m sure,” Steve says. “I’ve been sure for days. I just didn’t know when would be a good time.”

“So you picked ass o’ clock in the morning while I’m making coffee?”

Steve grins at him. Tony’s heart beats a little faster. “Yeah. That a problem?”

“Not at all,” Tony says, taking his hand and abandoning the machine. “We can have coffee later.”

He leads Steve back to their bedroom. Then he hesitates in the doorway. Normally at this point he’d just go for it, but something tells him that’s not the right move to make here. Fuck, he wants to do this right. He _needs_ to do this right.

“Okay,” he says, turning to Steve, who’s picked up on his hesitancy, if not really the reason why. “You’re in charge. You set the pace. If I do something you don’t like, you gotta tell me. If I _don’t_ do something you _do_ like, you gotta tell me.” He swallows, nervous like a teenager on his first night.

“Tony.” Steve says his name like he’s fucking precious, like it might melt in his mouth if he’s not careful, and Tony feels his knees go weak. There’s a slight smile on Steve’s face, and he leans forward. “I promise,” he says, lips centimeters away. “I’ll let you know.”

They kiss again, filthy and wet but somehow sweet at the same time. Tony’s hands slide up to Steve’s hair, and he winds his fingers in, gripping the blond strands. Steve _moans_ at that, and Tony grins against him. “Like that, do you?”

“Yes,” Steve gasps out, and he kisses Tony again. They stumble backwards, falling onto the bed, and Tony grunts as Steve lands on top of him. Turns out two hundred and twenty-pounds of muscled perfection is _heavy_.

“Get off,” he mutters, pushing at Steve’s chest.

“That’s the plan,” Steve mutters back with a sly smile, and Tony snickers. He hooks a leg over Steve’s and flips them over, like this is the gym and they’re sparring. Except where Steve would normally fight back, he just lets Tony roll him, boneless and happy and still smirking at his stupid joke.

“So what do you like?” Tony asks, kissing down his neck. “Tell me.”

“I like—“ Steve shudders under him, hands running over Tony’s back. “I…I like—”

“You like,” Tony mocks, but gently. “ _Tell_ me what you like, or you’re not gonna get any of it.”

“I like being held down,” Steve blurts out, and that’s so far from what Tony was expecting that he pulls up to look at Steve’s face. He’s blushing furiously, looking up at Tony through his too-long lashes, and the whole scene is just goddamn adorable. “I like—I like being fucked, and I like being told what to do. And making you feel good. Like being told _I’m_ good.”

Tony grins at this, because it’s like Christmas and his birthday and goddamn Easter, all rolled into one. Fucking _hell_ , he can’t believe he’s so damn lucky as to have this. Jokes about being kinky burst into his mind, but he swallows them down because this isn’t the moment. He’s an ass, but not _that_ much of one. Steve is being honest with him, and Tony’s not gonna fuck it up.

“Okay,” he says. “I can do all that.”

Steve lets out a sigh of relief, and then he smiles. “What do you like?”

“Lucky for you,” Tony says, leaning down, “I like to be in charge.”

“No shit,” Steve mutters dryly, and then he arches up into Tony’s mouth as it closes around his nipple.

“I don’t think I appreciate your sarcasm, sweetheart,” Tony tells him as he pulls off. The endearment falls from his mouth easy as breathing, and he’s not sure if it’s the right thing to say. But then Steve practically _melts_ underneath him, eyes wide and mouth trembling, and Tony just about comes right then and there. “Like that too, huh?”

“Yes,” Steve whispers. One hand is in Tony’s hair, gentle and soft, and the other is fisted in the sheet, taut and straining. Tony wants to see those arms in restraints, he thinks, wants to see the muscles turning and pulling against a tie, or handcuffs, or maybe nothing more than his instructions to not move—

But this isn’t the time for that, either. Not now. Now is about trust, and exploring.

“Let’s get these off,” Tony says, tugging at Steve’s sweatpants.

Steve obligingly lifts. “What else do you like?”

“I like you to do what I say,” Tony says, losing his train of thought a little as Steve’s cock, already hard and aching, comes into view. “I, uh…” Jesus, he’s never seen anything so _gorgeous_ in his entire life, and the fact that it’s attached to the most attractive man in the universe just makes it so much better.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says with a smirk. “I can wait until you’re less distracted.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “You like being a brat,” he guesses, and the smirk gets a little wider. “I thought you wanted to be good?”

“I can do both,” Steve says. “If you want.”

Oh, he _wants_. “That fucking mouth,” he says, and crawls back up to kiss him. “I don’t mind a little back talk. Not tonight, anyway. We can get into that later.” He lowers his voice, makes it a promise, and revels in the way it makes Steve’s eyes light up with anticipation.

He kisses his way back down Steve’s body, getting the taste of his skin, and ends up between Steve’s legs, mouth barely over his cock. “This okay?”

“Yes,” Steve breathes. “Yeah, Tony, it’s perf- _ahhhhhh_ —“ He cuts off his moan with a hand over his mouth as Tony sucks around the head of his cock, just barely taking it in.

“Nope,” Tony says, reaching up to tug his hand down. “I _like_ hearing that. I like those noises. You can get as loud as you want for me, sweetheart.”

He takes his time about it. Takes Steve’s cock back into his mouth with a little moan, savors the taste of him as he goes a little bit deeper, then back up. Almost all the way off, just to give Steve a moment to adjust before going back down. He keeps the pace even, more concerned with drawing those noises out of Steve than he is with getting him off. He licks his way down Steve’s cock, mouths at his balls, watching intently as Steve shudders and moans and _writhes_.

Tony’s own dick is straining in his pants, but he doesn’t care. He barely even notices, lost as he is in the magic of watching Steve come apart at his touch. “You can come,” he murmurs. “If you want.”

“I want,” Steve agrees. “Can you—please—a little more—”

“Little more what?”

“Deeper. More. Please, Tony, _please_ —”

Tony takes him deep, swallowing around him, eyes watering as he watches Steve shout in pleasure, his eyes closing and his fist still gripping the sheets. Tony takes him through it, utterly enraptured by the _everything_ about this moment.

It takes Steve a moment to come down from the high. Tony can see the _exact_ moment that he shudders himself back into the world, because his eyes open and fix on Tony with a mixture of tenderness and joy. “Come here,” he says, reaching down as he sits up, and Tony lets him pull him up into a kiss. “That was _amazing_.”

“I’m good at what I do,” Tony breathes, losing himself in the hungry way Steve licks into his mouth. He lets Steve manipulate him around, until Tony’s sitting on the edge of the bed and Steve is on his knees in front of him. Tony puts his hand on Steve’s cheek, and Steve leans into the touch with his eyes closed.

Then he opens them and reaches for Tony’s pants. His fingers pause at the waistband, and Tony can see the hint of uncertainty mixed in with the arousal.

“Hey,” he says. “Steve.”

Steve looks up. “Yeah?”

“You don’t have to do this,” he says. When Steve starts to protest, he holds up a hand. “Not what I mean. I know you _want_ it. But you don’t have to.” He rubs his thumb over Steve’s lower lip. “Is this your first time? With a guy?”

“No,” Steve says. “Bucky and I…a couple times we…” He still sounds sad about Bucky, but it’s less raw, somehow. Just melancholy. He gestures at Tony’s dick. “I know _what_ to do, anyway. It’s just…it’s been a while.”

“So don’t worry about it,” Tony says, even though there’s a part of him practically screaming to get Steve’s mouth on him. “It’s okay, Steve. We got all the time in the world. We can save it for another night.”

“But I want to make _you_ feel good too,” Steve says stubbornly, but the way his eyes flick up to Tony’s face make him think that maybe he wants something else with that.

“I’m sure you do.” Tony lets a little authority into his voice, and watches with satisfaction how Steve stills at the tone. “But you said you also wanted to be good for me, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” The word is low, barely a whisper.

“So let me take care of you tonight,” Tony says. “I’ve thought about this for _weeks_ , Steve. Spent so many night imagining this, trying to think of what you’d look like underneath me. Picturing you yelling my name loud enough for the whole city to hear.” He reaches down, tips Steve’s chin up. “That’s what’s gonna make _me_ feel good, sweetheart. Think you can do that for me? Just lie back and let me take care of you?”

“Yes,” Steve breathes again, and he lets Tony tug him back up onto the bed. There’s more kissing, slow and sweet now. More of a declaration than foreplay, intimate and close and wonderful. Tony lets his hands wander, caressing over Steve’s warm skin and leaving little goosebumps in their wake.

“I want to fuck you,” he murmurs in Steve’s ear. “Is that something you want?”

Steve swallows hard and nods. “Yeah,” he says, already sounding wrecked. “I want—I want it, Tony. Please.”

“Okay.” Tony gets up and leans over him. Fumbles around in the nightstand for lube and condoms. “Okay, Steve.”

He works his way down between Steve’s legs again, then hooks one of those powerful legs over his shoulder for no reason other than he really _has_ been imagining this, spent endless moments in the shower jerking himself off to this very sight. Except now that he’s here, he finds that he doesn’t want to touch _himself_ at all. He just wants to touch Steve.

_Take your time. Do it right._

“Ground rules,” he says, dragging himself back to the moment. “Look at me, Steve.”

Steve looks at him, already half-strung out.

“You have to tell me if it’s too much, or too fast. I can’t read your mind.”

“I know. I will.”

Tony grabs the lube and cracks the top, grinning at Steve’s little shiver of anticipation. “You know the traffic lights?”

The little confused look is too cute. “Traffic lights? Like red, yellow, green?”

“Yeah. Green is good. Yellow means slow down. Red means stop. You can use those if talking is too much, okay?” Tony pours lube on his finger. “Repeat that for me, sweetheart.”

“Green is go, yellow is slow, red is stop. I got it.” His eyes are open and honest and so, so blue. “Do it, Tony. Please.”

Tony gently presses his finger against Steve. Not going in, just rubbing, spreading the lube around, getting him used to the touch. Steve jolts a little, but after the first moment, he settles down and nods. Tony keeps rubbing at it, putting his other hand on Steve’s cock and gently stroking it.

Then he slowly works his finger in, eyes intent on Steve’s face. Steve bites his lip and lets out a deep breath. “Oh,” he says, like the word is pulled out of him.

“Color?”

“Green. It’s fine. Just been awhile.”

“I’ll go slow.” Tony slides his finger out a little, then back in. Gentle. Easy. He keeps his other hand moving, gently fisting Steve’s cock, losing himself a little in the way Steve’s hips buck up into it. Works his finger until Steve relaxes a little around him. “Gonna do two now, okay?”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Green. Go.”

Tony adds more lube, then works his second finger in. This one takes a little more effort, but then it’s in, and Tony keeps it moving, letting Steve’s body get used to it. “Still green?”

“Yeah.” Steve lets out another breath. “So green. Keep going, please.”

“Sure, sweetheart. Anything you want.” Tony angles his wrist, curls his fingers a little, then grins in delight as Steve’s back practically arches off the bed. A yell escapes him, one that he doesn’t bother to muffle. Tony chuckles. “How was that?”

“Fuck,” Steve grits out. “Again—do that again—”

Tony does it again. “Still green?”

“The greenest, oh _god_ —” Steve bucks up into his fist, then grinds down on his hand. “More, _more_ , Tony—”

“Shh, Steve. I’ll give it to you, I promise…” Tony’s voice trails off as he lubes up a third finger, then gently works it in along with the others.

He stills a little as Steve hisses in pain, but before he can ask, Steve says, “Yellow.”

And that—that makes Tony _so happy_ for some goddamn reason, fuck if he knows why. He says, “Okay, yellow,” and pauses, lets Steve pant for a moment.

Maybe it’s because Steve is trusting him, trusting Tony to slow things down and make it good again. Maybe it’s because Steve Rogers, king of pushing himself through things, is taking a moment to ask for a break. Maybe it’s because Tony is a fucking sap at heart and he’s pretty sure he’s hopelessly in _love_ —

“Green,” Steve says, and Tony is jolted back into it. He echoes Steve and moves his fingers slowly, carefully stretching him open, making sure that it’s good.

“You look so pretty like this,” Tony murmurs, turning his head to press a kiss to Steve’s leg where it rests on his shoulder. “All stretched out and open on my fingers, even better than I fucking pictured…”

Steve’s answering moan sounds like it’s been punched out of him, involuntary and indescribable. Tony grins and crooks his fingers, rubbing carefully on Steve’s prostate, feeling the response under his other hand. “So pretty,” he says again. “God, Steve, you’re being so good for me.”

When Steve is loose and relaxed around him, Tony presses another kiss to his knee. “Think you’re ready,” he says. “You still want this?”

“Green,” Steve pants, bucking up into his hand. “Fuck me, _please_.”

“You got it,” Tony says, quickly ditching his own pants. He pulls his fingers out, wipes them on Steve’s abs. Then he rips the condom open, rolls it onto himself, and spreads more lube. “Okay,” he says, a little breathless. “Okay, you ready?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Green, yes, all the green.”

Tony lines himself up and slides in slow, carefully watching Steve’s face the whole time. He means to say something nice, tell Steve how good it feels, but all he can manage is a strangled gasping sound as his brain practically short-circuits itself. It’s _tight_ , and hot, and holy fucking hell he’s going to die. He’s going to die right here and he won’t even care because this is the best thing he’s ever felt in his life.

“Color,” he manages, holding himself very still because if he moves he’s going to come, and he’s _not_ going to do that right now. He’s going to hold himself in check and make this good for Steve. “Color, baby. Come on.”

“Green,” Steve gasps back, rocking his hips a little. “Green, Tony, _please_.”

“Stop moving,” Tony says. “I need—stop moving, Steve, you gotta give me a second.”

Steve stills himself with visible effort, and Tony takes a few deep breaths until he can think his way past the mess of sensation that’s blaring in his brain like a neon sign. “Okay,” he finally says, eyes locking on Steve’s. “Okay. You still green?”

“Yes.” Steve puts his hands on Tony’s hips. “Is this okay?”

“It’s great. I love it. What do you say if you need me to stop or slow down?”

“Red or yellow.”

“Good boy,” Tony mutters, and he’d have to be blind to miss the effect _those_ words have. “Alright. Here we go.”

He starts moving, slowly at first, keeping one hand on Steve’s cock. Listening to the bitten off whimpers and the moans, watching as Steve’s eyes roll back a little. “I want you to come for me again,” he says, moving his hand faster. “Think you can do that for me?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and he sounds wrecked as hell already. “Yeah, I can. Please let me.”

Tony picks up the pace, already feeling the edge of his own orgasm. He grits his teeth and holds it back by sheer force of will. “There you go, sweetheart. You can do it. Whenever you’re ready.”

It doesn’t take long. Steve bites his lip, and his hands tighten on Tony’s waist, and he pushes up once, twice, and then he’s coming again, spurting white all over his chest and Tony’s hand with a yell that could be heard in another country. Tony holds his gaze and keeps his own rhythm steady. Keeps his hand pumping along Steve until there’s a shudder beneath him and Steve goes boneless. “Tony,” he slurs, actually _slurs_ , his voice punch-drunk and his eyes hazy with sated arousal. “ _Tony_.”

“I’m gonna come,” Tony informs him, unable to hold back any longer.

“Do it,” Steve mumbles. His hand slips off Tony’s waist and he pulls Tony’s hand off his cock, uncaring of the mess as he tangles their fingers together. “Do it.”

That’s all it takes. Tony tumbles over the edge with a gasp, feeling his brain light up like a thunderstorm, all flickering lights and drumbeats and a searing heat that seems to fill him from the inside out. He makes a little choked noise and collapses onto Steve’s chest with a muttered, “Fuck,” as the feeling blasts through his whole body, leaving him breathless.

Tony floats for a bit, lost in the tingling of his arms and legs and feet. Steve’s hands rub up and down his back, solid and warm and comforting.

Finally, Tony pushes himself back up. He rolls off Steve and strips off the condom, then stumbles into the bathroom on wobbly legs. He turns on the warm water and grabs a couple washcloths. One of them he uses on himself, just a quick wipe down. The other he takes back out to Steve, who is still laying on the bed, a blissed-out look on his face.

Tony wipes him down gently, cleaning all the lube and come off. “Sit up, babe,” he murmurs to Steve. There’s a bottle of water on the side of the bed, and he cracks it open. Raises it to Steve’s lips. “Drink this.”

He chucks the washcloth over his shoulder, vaguely hears it hit the tile floor in the bathroom. Then he slips back into bed and wraps himself around Steve, pulling a blanket over them both. Steve is shivering, but after a few moments, he relaxes into Tony’s arms. “Thank you,” he mumbles, and Tony’s not sure if that’s for the sex or the snuggles or everything else that’s been happening between them.

Either way, he’ll take it. He presses a kiss between Steve’s shoulder blades and says, “Anytime.”

* * *

When Tony finally does wake up, he finds that Steve is already awake, and watching Tony with a tender expression. “Morning,” he says softly. “Or afternoon, I guess. It’s after 10.”

“We slept that long?”

“Yeah.”

Tony stretches a little, then rolls onto his back. “You sleep okay?”

“No nightmares,” Steve says. “No dreams at all, actually.”

“Me too.”

They look at each other for a moment, and then Tony says, “So we should talk about that,” at the same time Steve says, “Do you want me to get coffee?”

Tony snickers. “Yes,” he says. “Get coffee. And then we should talk.”

Steve gets up. It takes him a minute to find his pants, which is fine. Tony’s not suffering for the view. Steve looks over his shoulder at him as he pulls them on, and smirks at Tony’s expression. “Like what you see?”

It’s flirty, and a little sultry, and not something Tony ever expected Steve Rogers to say to him. But then again, lots of things have happened in the last twenty-four hours that he didn’t really expect at all. So he just nods and shoos Steve out to get the coffee and tries to think about what he’s going to say. What _needs_ to be said.

Steve comes back and presses a mug into his hands, then sits down next to him. “You okay?” he asks, and Tony smiles at the old routine.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m okay.” He wraps his fingers around his mug, soaking in the heat. “So. That happened.”

“It did,” Steve agrees.

“I know you were okay with it last night.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you still okay with it now?”

Steve considers for a moment. Then he says, “Yeah. I am.”

Tony lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Good.”

Steve nudges him with a slight smile. “Were you worried?”

“A little,” Tony admits. “I know you and…Bucky had a thing. I wanted to give you the space you needed for that.” He takes a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about _me_ , considering how you felt about him.”

Steve looks sad, like he always does at the mention of Bucky. But he just shakes his head. “I said I was always gonna love him, Tony. I meant that. But he’s gone, and I’m still here. And I’m pretty sure he’d kill me if he caught me pining for him like some lovestruck girl.” A bittersweet smile spreads across his face. “He’d tell me to pull my head out of my ass, quit living in the past, and look at what’s in front of me.”

“He sounds like a good guy,” Tony says.

“He was. One of the best guys I ever knew. Stubborn, and loyal, and smart as hell.” Steve meets Tony’s eyes. “Reminds me of you, actually.”

Tony nods. Sips his coffee.

“So yeah,” Steve says. “I’m always gonna love him. But that doesn’t mean I can’t love anyone else, or that I don’t want to be with anyone else.” He gestures between himself and Tony. “I don’t know what this is, exactly. But I want to keep doing it. Keep being with you. If you want that too.”

“I do,” Tony says, and the strength of his statement surprises him.

“I’ve never had a real relationship other than him,” Steve tells him. “And we had to keep that secret. I’m probably not good at it.”

“I’m definitely not good at it,” Tony says. “My longest relationship was three days, and we spent all of them naked. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

And he doesn’t. There’s no blueprint for this. He doesn’t have a plan. But there wasn’t either when they started, and they managed to make it a routine anyway. He’s pretty sure that given time, they can make this work too.

“Well,” Steve says. “Here’s to figuring it out?” He holds up his mug.

“Together,” Tony says, and he raises his own mug. It’s disgustingly sappy of him again. Practically tooth-rotting sweet. But it’s worth it, he thinks, for the smile that blooms over Steve’s face.

“Together,” he echoes, and they both drink.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


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